The Supernaturalists: What follows the fire
by xavier.powerofvalentine
Summary: A brief backstory to the mega-bestselling book by Eoin Colfer "the Supernaturalists"
1. Chapter 1

The Supernaturalists.

What follows the fire.

Chapter one

There was the sound of a switch being thrown. Within seconds, floodlights began to igniting, showering light onto the black tarmac below. All around was the bustle of activity, as scientists scurried around the edges of the racetrack carrying an assortment of notes and gadgets. Shutters were raised, as race officials went about their business with speed and accuracy. Track side lamps were lit, and as the shutters raised fifteen different platforms moved forwards hydraulically. On each of these platforms stood an elongated silhouette, covered in lead-lined tarpaulin. These platforms moved with mathematical precision, sliding over to their sections on the racetrack, each slipping seamlessly into its niche, forming a perfect racing formation. One floor up in the converted warehouse, a woman watched from behind a sheet of toughened glass. A scientist, clad in a white overcoat scurried over to her, bowing slightly as if that would make him more significant to her.

"We're ready ma'am" He said, the tremor in his voice unmistakable. And with good reason, as there wasn't a single employee in the building who didn't know this woman's background, and how she rose to the position she was in today.

Director of developmental projects Ellen Faustino didn't even bother turning from the window to acknowledge the scientist. He didn't deserve that, as most of these genius types didn't. Giving them credit was just a way of making their egos bigger, maybe big enough to disobey orders from management. Instead, she looked down to a single figure standing on the track in an orange jersey, helmet under an arm. This was Alex Braunt, the head of the race testing team, and her most promising racer. She had handpicked him from a long line of eager drivers, and had invested thousands of dinars in his training and hours logged. She nodded at him, and he turned and immediately began barking orders. The preparations for Myishi Corporation's testing race had begun.

On the tarmac, teams of jersey-clad people dashed forth, pulling the tarpaulin sheets back, revealing their prize. The entire Myishi Z-class fleet stood before them. Unadorned, but sleek in their glossy colour and glowing with the promise of speed and ultimate handling. It was almost strange, the way they stood there so silently, but silence is often the mark of greatness. Every driver knew that his car cost over a billion dinars to develop, and with good reason, as these cars were of a special breed. These cars were known as Nitrous racers, and were customized to withstand repeated and sustained bursts of nitrous injections. Historically, the combination of oxy-boost and nitrous injections generally heated the pistons and the superheated air damaged the engines. But Myishi had taken advantage of this by placing a simple heat releasing system on the air tubes and on the walls of the piston chambers, then used a dynamo system to make use of the hot air to form electrical energy that was directly fed back into the innovative double driveshaft system, where one ran on electricity, and the other on the nitrous-fuel mix.

Each driver put on his helmet, then slid into their cars. Engines were ignited, and the tension began building in the very air. Scientists began frantic last minute calculations and stopwatches were primed. Drivers began revving the engines, opening radio lines to their managers or to on-site race commentators. Only one driver did differently, a mistake as it turned out.

"Hey Ms Faustino," came the boyish voice over Ellen Faustino's earpiece.

Ellen Faustino lowered her head to hide the gleeful smile that lit her face. It wouldn't do to have the middle-waged workers seeing her smile like a schoolgirl.

"What the hell are you doing Alex?" Came her scathing reply, but Alex had long since learned to read the smile in her voice, something perhaps two other men in the world may have been able to do. "You're supposed to be contacting your race operator."

"Oh take a chill pill babe," smirked Alex. "There hasn't been a race where Alex Braunt couldn't complete without a voice telling him how far behind him the other racers were."

Ellen smiled in spite of herself, enjoying her permanent role of the one in power, and educating the one that was not. "Oh really Alex? Easy to say that lounging in your air-conditioned Z-15 when its stationary, Lets see you keep that cockiness at three hundred and twenty kilometers an hour." Ellen raised a hand, the signal being interpreted by a motion sensor concealed in the room. Below the countdown sequence began as five red lights lit up above the track.

Alex smirked, not unduly worried. "You'll never change Ellen." He revved his engine, gloved hands gripping tight to the well.

Heh, why should I? Thought Ellen, letting her arm drop.


	2. Chapter 2

The drop of her arm was translated by the machine as a signal to begin, which was relayed into the race lights below, turning the whole row green at once. A split second later all fifteen accelerators were floored, and engine pistons began pumping. Tyres spun seemingly without regard for grip on the floor, and melted rubber soon coated the entire starting line as the fifteen cars took off, rushing down the straight of the first quarter at almost a hundred kilometers an hour from the start. Not bad for 1.2 billion dinars worth of innovation.

Within 2 seconds of the light turning green the track had been reduced to multi-colored blurs speeding around the track. Given that the cars were more than capable of hitting four hundred kilometers per hour, Ellen Faustino had personally pioneered a special pair of strobe-variation goggles. This slowed the images down to about a hundredth of a second, and yet the scientists would soon need a trip to the chiropractor for their overstrained necks.

Inside the Zs the drivers were also having their own thoughts. Many were focused only on the track ahead of them, watching as the road turned and twisted and reacting with their hands and pedal flexes. Every driver's teeth were gritted in utter concentration, as their entire car's frame shook with the power of the engines. Fuel burnt at a constant rate, and tyres spun tirelessly, black smoke billowing as the tyre's rubber hit smoking point. Every turn was a struggle for the drivers, releasing the gas, hitting the brakes to the point of the brake discs glowing red, then hitting the gas at the right moments to prolong drift and then pull out of it. Any normal person would have been stressed to breaking point and beyond words as they focused on not crashing.

"You look pretty even at three hundred kilometers an hour. Then again, the amount of make-up you put on daily would make you look pretty even to a bat."

Obviously someone wasn't stressed enough yet.

"Oh put a lid on it Alex," snapped Ellen. She crossed over to a control board, where fifteen different monitors displayed the diagnostics of every car. "Your engine pressure is dropping, better double-rev at the start of the next turn, Let the Cross-power system do its work."

"Oh come now," groaned Alex as he executed the turn perfectly, "I didn't open this channel to trade one race commentator for another did I? If I did I may as well go back to the old one, his voice was much much sexier." Alex smirked as he wound her up with complete ease.

Ellen almost laughed. It was always entertaining to see Alex in his natural environment. He had always been born to drive, born in the least likely place of Booshka as he was. By age eight, he could already recite to you the names of a hundred different car parts and how to install them, and also manipulate his tiny fingers to slip behind a dashboard and hotwire a car in fifteen seconds flat. By age fifteen he had won the Sweethearts eleven boosted cars and over fifty thousand dinars in racers when he was involved in a huge crash that tore through a cement wall and destroyed two Myishi developmental cars. Ellen Faustino had entered his hospital ward with two sheets of paper. The first, an IOU that would've landed Alex and his family into a billion dinar debt. The second, a contract that hired Alex as their test driver with a six-digit monthly wage and a promise that their debt would be taken from his pay and cleared within five years. Guess which one he picked. However, Ellen kept herself in check. Alex needed discipline if he wanted to become more than just a well-paid test driver, and with Ellen guidance he was already promising to be an excellent manager. But he needed discipline, as was clear.

"Keep a lid or you wont be hearing my sexy voice anytime soon," She threatened as the drivers carried on with yet another lap. This was thirteen out of the twenty test laps that had been scheduled today, and the most possible time for accidents to occur. After the repetitive laps, this was the point in time where drivers tended to lose focus, bored as they were from doing the same thing over and over. Most race operatives traditionally shouted into the microphone at this point in time to keep their racers awake and alert. Ellen opted for a gentler yet equally effective method; trade. "Hey Alex," said Ellen in that special sing-song voice she kept for this specific purpose. "Keep that mind awake, come in first today, and I might just give you that special bonus after dinner later tonight."

Alex almost crashed in his anticipation. Ellen was seductive indeed. It would be quite a challenge to satisfy her yet keep her vulnerable and in his grasp, but Alex liked challenges, could never resist them. He eased up on the accelerator, tapping the brakes before slamming the gas down again to enter his trademark parallel powerslide. It was called a parallel powerslide because Alex had the ability to judge a turn's curves with mathematical precision, and as such turn the car so perfectly that the front and rear fenders were parallel to the curves, effectively blocking the cars behind from passing. However, to pull off this move effectively, the driver had to be perfectly aware of the right moments to rev the accelerator so that the car's rear responded to his touch without actually losing too much speed. Since it was Alex who had pioneered this, he was the best at it, but being the pioneer of something generally means that you make mistakes in it yourself.

As he entered the turn, Alex was distracted by a flash to the right of his windshield. Further investigation would later lead to the discovery that one of the reflectors in the lights had been warped and curved by the repeated exposure to heat from the tarmac below. As such, it had flexed to the point where it reflected light into the windshield of Alex's Z15, distracting him for a mere second. This second was enough to throw his focus off, and experienced as he was, he still pulled off the powerslide, but was unable to overcome the loss in speed, pulling out of the curve and losing fifty km/h in the process. The car behind saw his chance, flooring the accelerator as soon as he cleared the curve.


End file.
